The Stage Lost a Fine Actor
by jabigailians
Summary: It all started with a text Sherlock received from The Woman-she's back in town. John won't admit to himself that he has feelings for Sherlock, but his time to tell him that is fleeting. Does Sherlock feel the same way? One-shot.


Sherlock was feeling particularly giddy today. For some reason it seemed that his spirits had lifted significantly though he chose not to admit so as true or false. It was, however, normal, in his lack of speaking.

"Sherlock," I started, "is there something...happening today?"

He responded in a way only Sherlock could respond. A grunt. I took that as a yes, and turned back to my paper.

"Tea," he said in his low, booming voice.

I stood and looked towards him, laying on the sofa in his signature Sherlock position; hands resting comfortably under his chin. Some element in his expression emitted a joyous emotion.

"Tea 'please?'" I tried. A grunt in response. I sighed, and walked over to the kitchen. It was in disarray, but then it was on a regular basis anyway. As soon as my back was turned, I heard rustling and footsteps coming from Sherlock's direction. "Sherlock?" I called.

No response. I sighed and turned back to the kettle.

I must have waited in my chair for over an hour. Sherlock's tea had grown cold, and I had finished my first, second, and third cup. It was time to investigate.

I arose and wandered into Sherlock's room. He was standing there in his pants, hands on his hips, pondering his choices of dress laid out in front of him on his bed. For some reason, this stunned me.

"John." I gasped slightly as he spoke. I had been in mostly nothing but silence for the past hour.

"Um, yes, Sherlock?" I answered, voice shaking a little. This alarmed me, though it shouldn't, seeing as I was far from calm on the inside.

"She's coming today."

"Wh-what? Who is?"

"She is."

I stared at him for a long time, examining the expression on his face while he looked deep into my eyes hoping I would figure it out.

Oh. _The _Woman. The only woman.

He smiled slightly as he sensed my realization. I looked from his bed to his body, then back to the clothes on his bed. "The black trousers. Purple shirt. Just, um, dress like you normally would." I forced a smile. For some reason I was...feeling. It wasn't an emotion I was used to experiencing near Sherlock, but I could just be confused. That's got to be it.

The detective looked at me curiously for a moment, and I awkwardly cleared my throat to fill the silence. "...Thanks," he said, after a moment. I nodded my head once, careful to hide any sort of trace of feelings plastered traitorously on my face. Meanwhile, I focused on how Sherlock might know that Irene would be here, at 221B Baker Street. He's always got ways of knowing things that no average human being might, but God really knows how he's figured this one out.

"She texted me," Sherlock said absentmindedly, slipping on a white undershirt. An _undershirt_. Wait, what am I doing? I looked away from his carved, towering figure.

"But you've got her phone," I breathed. Some invisible force did not want me to look away from Sherlock, so I succumbed to that force and turned back towards him.

Sherlock looked up at me, giving that "it's obvious," look that he does so often. He was buttoning up his shirt. God, I feel sick, maybe I should lie down...

"She got a new phone, of course," he scoffed almost comically.

"Right, right," I said. I really should go lie down. "...what did she text you?"

The detective was finally putting on his dress jacket when he said, "'I'm in London. Let's have dinner.'"

I cleared my throat. "What...um, what did you say back? To, um, Irene, what did you say?"

"I didn't," he affirmed.

"Then how did you know she's coming over?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Obvious."

I nodded in reply. There wasn't much use getting anything else out of Sherlock. Though he would never admit it, I know the only woman...or _person__**, **_for that matter, that Sherlock has shown any romantic interest in would be Irene Adler. But known to him specially as, "The Woman." No other woman could compare to his godlike wit like Irene Adler. The only woman who has ever stumped him, tricked him, beat him, so of course he should find her intriguing. God knows how she survived decapitation in that witness protection scheme in America, but my guess is Sherlock Holmes had_ something_ to do with it.

"So," he continued, "you've got the kettle on, is that correct? Because I haven't heard the whistle or any telltale signs of a pot of tea ready for her visit."

I swallowed. "But...oh, _goddammit!_ Sherlock, I thought you wanted that cuppa for yourself! I went and drunk it all up, I thought..." I sighed. I don't know why I continued to put up with this man.

"Ah, yes, but seeing as we have here," the taller man looked at his wristwatch (an accessory he had taken to wearing lately), "approximately six minutes until her arrival."

" Six minutes-" I trailed off to leave the room and find our beloved landlady, Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson!" I exclaimed, surprised to see her there standing in our living room, though by now you'd think I would have been used to her spontaneous visits by now.

"John, dear, I heard the whole thing. I'm so happy that Sherlock's finally found love. Always worrying about him, you know," she said, smiling, holding out a casserole. I took it gladly.

"Once again, Mrs Hudson..." I shook my head.

"Oh, don't mention it." and then she walked off.

I walked over to the kitchen table and put the casserole into three bowls. Then again, maybe they would like some privacy...

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?" I asked, not looking up.

"What've you got a casserole for?"

I looked up at him, astounded. "We've got no food for you two or no time to get anything quick. Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to have something ready-"

"Don't be silly, John, we won't eat," he dismissed.

"Wh-what? She said, 'let's have dinner,' I know, you told me." I protested.

"But why should that mean we'll eat?" he asked sincerely. I really don't understand Sherlock Holmes that often, and I was beginning to feel aggravated.

"I-I really don't know, okay, Sherlock? But...Mrs. Hudson brought this up for you and your..." gulp. "...date."

Sherlock looked taken aback by the word, then decided not to vindicate the statement.

Yes, it must be true, then. Sherlock Holmes has finally met his match...in more ways than one. Irene Adler. It makes sense, really. For a match of his cunning and wit to be met in the form of a seductive genius...also female. I had always, in my mind, defined Sherlock as asexual, but seeing him lose control like that, that was almost scary. He was my best friend, and hadn't admitted to me yet his feelings for this woman.

Whenever I thought about Sherlock and The Woman together, I sort of...died a little inside. I'm not sure why, maybe it's because of the type of woman she is and how it would hurt me to see him hurt by her.

"How did you know I was coming?" I spun around to see, standing in the doorway, Irene Adler herself. Her raven colored hair was twisted up in its usual hairdo, and her fierce green eyes pierced mine upon making eye contact. She wore a wool coat that was shed quickly, obviously to draw the attention of Sherlock to her jumper, which barely held in her chest.

"How did you buzz yourself up?" I asked her. Then I blushed slightly. "I mean, of course, how did you get in. To our flat."

"Mrs. Hudson," answered Sherlock.

She began to speak in that seductive voice."Still got this little pet of yours, Sherlock Holmes? Well, genius does need an audience. So...let's have dinner."

Irene Adler's eyes met Sherlock Holmes' mysterious blue-grey ones and you could almost feel the sexual tension in the room. I decided it might be the best time to leave. I grabbed my plate of casserole and headed straight to the chair in front of the telly. I flipped it on, hoping maybe I could find a program worth watching.

Sadly, that did not happen. Instead, I spent my dinner listening in on Irene and Sherlock's conversation.

"Eat," she dared him, moving closer to him across the table. She moved her legs up and sat on them for better gripping. She walked over to him and stood tall, towering over Sherlock (for once).

"I don't eat, digesting...slows...me-" His protest was broken by her lips touching his in a searing kiss that made him freeze up. Her hands were in his hair, and she lowered herself onto his lap. Then it happened. He kissed her back. His hands wrapped coiled her waist and he leaned forward a bit, taking control. A low moan escaped her throat, and she worked her hands down to the bottom of his shirt and untucked it slightly.

This was where Sherlock broke off the kiss. His hair was mussed up and his lips were red, and his expression was a mix of arousal and confusion.

"Is there a problem, Sherlock Holmes?" Irene whispered in a sexy voice.

"Moriarty," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah, I know him," Irene urged. "Well, I know what he likes..."

Sherlock swallowed audibly. It didn't take a genius to see plainly how his head was spinning.

"Is that a problem? Because when you got stuck on me I thought you'd figured out now that I can't be tied down to one man...or woman," Irene defended. "Well, I will be tied up, though." She grinned devilishly. "Would you like me to try?"

"No, I um-"

"John." I whirled back toward the telly. The Woman had caught me spying. "Seems that your live-in pet's been eavesdropping. Could he be jealous? Sherlock Holmes, I certainly won't believe you'd keep yourself just for me, you naughty boy, not when you've got _a real_-"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said again.

"Oh, you've been with him, too?"

"No, but you have." Sherlock said curtly. The conversation had taken a downward spiral (if you hadn't already considered it a downward spiral). "I don't know how, or why, but you've been with him. You saw him three nights ago."

I was stunned. Irene Adler was the only person Sherlock hasn't been able to deduce, but somehow-

"You've been sloppy. Or not, this was a conscious decision driven towards making me jealous, but as you can see, it hasn't worked. It instead has aggravated me, and you're slapping yourself inside wondering why you didn't see how. Moriarty is my greatest nemesis, and you should've picked up on that. Also, I was wondering why you thought you would 'get anywhere' with me, when obviously I'm not that kind of man. Oh yes, you thought wrong. Again." Sherlock deduced quickly and wasted no time getting the facts out.

I turned around to watch her expression. It was blank; the perfect poker face. I don't know how Sherlock ever deduced anything with an actress as great as she.

"I've got to go, I've...got some…business that needs tending to." She stammered. She was obviously surprised. Embarrassed. Hurt. Her tone did nothing to support the lack of emotion on her face. Except for one imperfection; a single tear slithering down her cheek. The dinner had barely lasted a few minutes, and she was heartbroken. Irene Adler gathered her things quickly and dashed out of the apartment.

"Irene, wait!" Sherlock cried, running out after her. I walked over to the kitchen table and began cleaning the dishes.

He returned minutes later, expression solemn but tight and emitting an air of sadness.

"Sherlock..." I started. I wasn't sure how to comfort him.

"I'm fine," he protested, leaning against the fridge, his hand in his hair. Seeing him like this caused two new emotions: sympathy and...need. Somehow I felt need for Sherlock. Then I realized.

All of these emotions, these feelings...all jealousy. It's been Sherlock all along, and I needed to see him in emotional pain to understand that. But that's just sick. Wrong. Have I been in love with him? Am I in love with him? Love is dangerous, especially where Sherlock is involved. I know that there's no way he could ever feel love for me in return. But since now, since I understand my feelings, it would be impossible not to dream of acting on them. Without Sherlock noticing.

So I've got to act on them. I mean, what if he does? Love me in return, I mean. He's a very good liar, I've seen it with my own eyes. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime. Nonetheless, Sherlock could definitely be posing as heartbroken, just as a show for me. I pushed myself to deny that thought as I tried to think of how to...console him.

But all those times I denied we were a couple, and he sat completely silent! All those times I protested, "I'm not gay," while he sat uncomfortable and unfazed in his seat! Could it really be?

It can't. I mean, how could it? "I'm very flattered," he said, "but I consider myself married to my work..." How could a socially awkward, asexual consulting detective have developed any special feelings for me? God, I sound like some lovestruck schoolboy. Though is that not what I am? A hopeful (and yet hopeless) schoolboy with a crush on the smartest bloke in secondary school.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked. No doubt he had taken notice to my apparent deep thought and silence. In spite of his own internal pain he had taken time to question my current mental stability.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I couldn't help but duck my head down to shield my giveaway facial expression from the creator of the science of deduction itself.

He nodded uncertainly, and went back to pouting, so I took that as a sign to ask him in return.

"You?" was the best I could muster without a falter in my voice.

The detective rubbed his temples. "No..." he replied truthfully. "I'm really not." He looked up at me, observing my face twisted with concern. "And neither are you."

I said nothing.

"You're..." he straightened with bewilderment. "You're-"

_Stop._ I kissed him. Right on the mouth. I couldn't bear to hear him say it out loud, so I took action and confirmed the deduction. I darted over to him, grabbed his face in my hands and pressed my lips to his firm (but soft) ones. As soon as I had done so, I felt the weight on my shoulders float away. Everything was as it was supposed to be.

Immediately, he pulled away. I caught the look on his face and the weight formerly on my shoulders returned to its rightful place.

He was…_horrified_. This hateful expression on his face, coming from a man who usually kept his emotions inside, not visible to the outside world.

"Sherlock, I don't know-"

"John..." was all he could say.

"I'm sorry." I apologized, hoping he would accept it.

He didn't. "Just...don't do that again. Please."

As soon as he began pleading with me, I started to lose it inside. On the outside, I remained calm. Well, as calm as one could be after unsuccessfully attempting at snogging his own flatmate.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," he whispered. "And I know what you were thinking," he said, beginning to laugh. "I knew you fancied me."

"You-you did?" I asked, baffled. Even I didn't know.

"I saw it in your dilated eyes each time you looked at me, in your quickened pulse whenever we touched. I saw it when Irene was here, the way you looked at her with an almost unknown hatred: envy.

"And finally, I saw it in the way you had tried to look for an effective way to console me after I scared Irene out. Whether you believe it or not, I do understand love. Each day more and more the sentiment behind it as well. I saw that in her, John, I saw it in her the way you hoped I would see it in you."

I swallowed. I didn't know how to respond to that.

Sherlock edged closer to me, and took my face in his hands. Very, very gently, he kissed me again on the lips. He kissed me lightly leaving a trail of kisses to my right ear and whispered, "I wish you the very best, John."

And then he walked back into his room and shut the door tightly. The noise startled me.

I have known my flatmate Sherlock Holmes for four years. In that time he's become my best friend. And I have fallen hopelessly in love with him.

He will never love me back.


End file.
